


Mordane's Heart

by Jupiterra



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Danger, M/M, Modded Skyrim, Slice of Life, my character's life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiterra/pseuds/Jupiterra
Summary: This is fictional accounts of my Skyrim character's playthrough. Put simply, it's his life through his eyes. Mordane is a hardy Breton adventurer that discovers something he can't pin down with arrows... doubt and loneliness. How will he overcome this new emotional barrier?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Storms

Without counting ESP free texture improvement, I have roughly 23 mods running to improve the quality of life in my Skyrim SE game. I won't list them all, but I will mention the ones that feature in this story.

\- **Life Another Life:** Start as not the dragonborn in another town.  
\- **Amazing Follower Tweaks:** A variety of follower tweaks, including having many followers.  
\- **Skyrim Redone SE:** A total overhaul of the game to give more varieties of magic, weapon specialization, and makes enemies smarter or harder.  
\- **iNeed:** My character has to eat and sleep.  
\- **Cloaks of Skyrim:** Having a cape that flaps in the wind. Epic equals win.  
\- Camping mods so my character can chill in the wilds.  
\- Several minor Dwemer mods so my character can play archaeologist.  
\- A few social mods so my character can flirt or have deeper conversations.  
\- Several adult mods so my character can get around, if you catch my drift.

With these changes noted, This is the story of Mordane the Breton. He is my character in Skyrim I have become the most attached to. He has... _history_... and I am compelled to write it. Please enjoy Mordane's life story.

**00000**

Skyrim was a cold place. It was harsh beauty, danger, and mysteries of the past under snow capped veneer. Her peoples, however short sighted a Nord could be, were remarkable. Her roads were winding and long, like snakes of paving stone in old forest.

Mordane sometimes felt like he had walked them all. His keen archery skills had stalked the land's prey countless times. The Breton male was a fiery red head, with a lot of experience on his shoulders. His shoulders that were covered in hair. Divines, did he need a hair cut. Upon taking off his dazzling Dwarven helmet, the long locks were falling out.

Across the campfire, Uthgerd the Unbroken laughed. Taking off her own Dwarven armour in grave fatigue, the duo was done for today. Walking everywhere was dragging but inevitable. The sheer amounts of dangers that took a taste to horse meat was inescapable.

“Your hair is longer than Meeko's tail, milk-drinker.” The seasoned Nord joked, finally getting bulky pauldrons off. The aforementioned dog, a husky with eyes like ice, wagged it's tail at being mentioned. Of course he did, with rabbit stew in the cook pot. Vigilance was not far off, also eyeing tonight's dinner. Both war trained huskies were such rascals.

“Your face is more scarred than a horker's backside.” Mordane joked right back. It had been a year now of his travels and his deeds. Uthgerd had been a happy accident months ago. She was somehow hired after a slip of mead lined tongue in Whiterun. One hell of a fist fight had been involved.

Some of Mordane's greatest acquaintances had been made in fist fights, as was the Nord way. Turning around in silent respect, Mordane looked elsewhere as his traveling companion changed into a woolen sleeping gown. It was silent code to be mindful of such things.

Like any pair of adventurers, they talked forever more. “So,” the rugged woman prompted in kind, “Redoran's Retreat, or Swindler's cave tomorrow? The jarl has a good price on either location.”

Mordane gave a soft sigh, but Uthgerd didn't hear it. She was a failed companion with years crawling on, her own lone mercenary career a flop. Whatever she was looking for at the end of bandit infested caves... sometimes Mordane didn't see it anymore. The shine of coins didn't always blind him.

He mulled over an answer, looking at the vast planes of tundra grass that was Whiterun Hold. “Not sure, we'll see where the divines lead us.”

Done changing, the duo resumed regular seated position around the fire. Mordane stirred the pot perched on a metal grill. The stew was almost done. The faithful dogs were likely aware of this. Uthgerd looked to him, then dipped crusty bread into the stew and ate anyway.

Her steely blue eyes never missed much. “Something is off with you.”

Damn her sparkling intelligence. “I don't see what.” Mordane deflected the concern with a glance of hazel eyes. His own face showed his forsworn roots in the Reach, a permanent band of tattoo across his face. Once upon a time, he had been a rather pig headed hunter for a tiny tribe. The Thalmor and Stormcloaks equally saw to the slaughter of such stability.

Mordane was a maverick now, a child of politically fueled war. Who wasn't in a time of civil unrest?

“By Akatosh, I do see it. Is it the jarl again?” The lady was persistent like winter. There was little else to pick at in the mountain nestled camp.

“Balgruuf won't... He's pushing the imperial army thing.” The breton finally caved, wanting to talk about it. “I don't want to haul my ass to Solitude, for... for what? Glory?”

Uthgerd chuckled after another bite of bread. “You are his thane. You kinda have to do what he says.”

Mordane took dinner off the fire, scowling. “I don't! That's the point. I'm an honorary thane. _Honorary_. He barely fucking pays me. Between him and Avenicci... cheap imperial sucking...”

“You milk off the same imperial cows from time to time, as I do recall.” Uthgerd spoke pointedly, serving them both bowls of rabbit and carrot stew.

Blowing on a spoon of chunky hot stew, the redhead shook his head. “It's not the same as Balgruuf. We always do work for the coin, not the loyalties. Stormcloak, Imperial... I don't care. I don't want to care.”

Forever devil's advocate this woman was. Her point was obvious, if biased. “So you'll do Thalmor work now.”

“Absolutely not.” Mordane hissed through burnt tongue, cursing more than his impatience. It was silent fact that elven bastards had cut down the Breton's father like timber at young age. He was... working on things. After two decades of personal growth, he could associate with all but the most insufferable Altmer. He was certain no one liked the high elves, not even themselves.

“Then... We are going to help Ulfric.” The strawberry blonde's political leanings were shifting with time. Six months ago Uthgerd would not have uttered such blasphemies.

“I don't know yet.” The man deflected once more. _By Secunda, no!_ was what he screamed internally.

“You've seen his summons.”

“I have,” he grunted back.

Mordane wasn't fucking blind. He had seen the recruiting posters in almost every hold. A call to war over... what? Religion? Banning a fucking statue in Solitude's church? Mordane's entire family clan had been killed by Thalmor for worshiping the old ways. You didn't see him gallivanting around stabbing the empire in the foot. Not anymore.

Ulfric was a great big child, breaking all that didn't fit his simple world. Still, the imperials were not behaving any better. This country was going to pot, and Mordane felt like the carrots floating on top. Deliciously fucked.

At the thought of being deliciously fucked, Mordane blushed and ate dinner. He was sure politics would interrupt his meals in the future. Everything was at peace for a time, until a lone howl sounded too close. The heat of battle called once more.

Uthgerd grinned, picking up her dwarven broadsword. The cycle of violence rolled on.

**00000**

Morthal. What was there to say? It was a swampy frozen shit hole for a town. How the collection of buildings was a Nordic hold was inconceivable. After a fortnight of trekking through mud and leech infested water, a bounty was completed. Vampires were the worst, like magical skeevers. You killed a dozen in a cave, they popped right back up a month later.

The breton was admittedly jaded on the matter of undead. After a harrowing run of adventures with the obstinate Dawnguard, he had his fill. Once a person gave into the lifestyle of the infected, they lost the right to their head.

There was no time to contemplate lost lives.

There was no room for compassion.

In these respects, Uthgerd and Mordane couldn't agree more. It was why they had been on the road as long as they had. Vampires and Necromancers particularly stirred their shared ire. What was so goddamn difficult about leaving a corpse in the ground? By the divines, a man deserved a rest after so much life lived.

Jarl Ravencrone was seated in her wooden longhouse like always at the heart of Morthal. It had probably been years since she so much as cast a spell in combat. It was days like these that Mordane felt like a sucker. Throw a few septims on the floor and half the population was magically willing to get killed for her.

“My most esteemed thane. Mordane, I must thank you again.” The older leader crooned, smiling as a burlap bag of vampire heads was dropped at her feet. Her husband and steward, Aslfur, stepped forward, gingerly picking up the gory present. “I'll... dispose of this.” The nord grimaced in his very Nord way.

“It was in your name, my grace.” Mordane was at times, a professional ass kisser. You really had to be to get far in the court of the blue palace. Even rough edged Markarth had a bit of lip service involved, sometimes literally.

“I wonder where we would be without your services.” The wealth and fur cloaked Jarl went on, handing over a sizable bag of coin. “Yet you never desire property in my hold. The people of Morthal adore you Mordane.”

_Without me you would be doomed. Your people would be dead from the vampire lord Movarth while you drink in your longhouse._

Mordane's innermost thoughts were often his darkest, but most honest. He accepted the payment with false smile, a rather imperial trait picked up over the years. It couldn't be helped in such social climate. “I'm a thane of many places. I will forever be needed elsewhere.” he spoke quaintly.

It was a relief to leave, the duo once more on the road. Meeko and Vigilance wagged happy dog tails as they trotted alongside their master. Once they were all out of ear shot from the town, Uthgerd spoke her mind. She always did.

“That was the biggest pile of shit I ever heard. You kissed her ass until it was clean.” 

Mordane was tired, past ego and ideals of war. “I've kissed worse.”

Uthgerd shook her head. “Ravencrone is weak, relying on mercenaries to so much as lift a goblet for her.”

“I know Uthgerd, I know. But she pays well. She really needs to get the Dawnguard up in there. Serious infection rates.”

“Isran charges too much. It's a wonder he has enough septims to keep the torches lit.” Uthgerd's point was true enough. Isran was shit at price negotiation, when all was said and done. He had the charisma of a screaming orcish beserker.

They chatted on, walking the now familiar road to Dawnstar. Icy drifts of snow threatened to take over the road. The only things that cleared the path were rare Imperial patrols and the spring thaw. In the dead of Skyrim winter, only flanking fence posts indicated some passes.

Both adventurers were thankful for their fur cloaks and lining. The dogs didn't notice the pre-blizzard conditions at all, born for the weather. Uthgerd looked to the west, the sky slowly hooded in grey cover. “By Ysmir, that looks like terrible weather.”

Mordane, weak to the cold after years of mining in warm underground Markarth, winced. “It'll blow our tents over probably.”

“Probably.” his companion echoed, knowing full well it would. The country's weather was as mean as her politics sometimes. Divines save them.

In the end, they had to settle for camping out in a Nordic ruin. These were places Mordane felt the most uncomfortable. You never knew if a draugr or a skeever was going to pop up and scare you shitless. With a dawnguard forged silver blade, the undead were less bothersome now. They weren't without threat though.

The air in the old crypt was stale and frigid. Everything echoed down the old crumbling halls. Normally Mordane was brave and cleared out a place in it's entirety. No risk would be had from resting there for a week or so after.

The breton was also very mortal. He was exhausted from forced hustle, wasting time in the wilds seeking shelter. As it was, he barely beat the storm front out. It was now howling outside in the freezing pitch of night. The two huddled around a small but bright fire, dogs at their feet as living heaters.

It was times of vulnerability like this that Uthgerd's guard lowered. “I... I miss Whiterun on days like these.”

“I... I get that.” Mordane shivered, not daring to take off his bulky armour and lining. It was the only thing keeping him warm.

“You think... Skulvar still makes that mud crab cake recipe?” Uthgerd whispered, still the loudest sound in this eerie tomb. Skulvar was a grizzled horse breeder back in Whiterun. He had a blatant crush on Uthgerd, unwilling to voice it. She was romantically blind, of course, like most Nords.

“The ones with the little green flecks in them?”

“Leeks, yeah. He cuts them up really small.”

“Probably.” Mordane shivered fiercely. “He's pretty good cook for a Nord.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Uthgerd sat up straight in indignation. “I burn venison one time!”

A dark massive shape loomed behind her without warning, mummified joints creaking. _Shit_.

**00000**

A throbbing head wound. Sleepy thoughts. Bound in camping blankets as he was dragged in a primitive hide sled, Mordane struggled to function. He struggled to string words together at all. A draugr death lord had taken the exhausted campers by surprise. They survived, but at a cost. Low on bandages and healing elixirs, they were forced to leave the tomb. Wandering the dark of blizzard filled night, Uthgerd cursed the daedra for their luck.

Heavy wounded, Mordane drifted in the watery waking. “Hurt.” he mumbled, barely heard. There was a long slow blink from inside his blood stained helmet.

“Don't you go to Sovngarde on me! Remember that prank in Markarth?” Uthgerd spoke over the wind as she hauled her technical employer.

Mordane in his drunk state, chuckled. “I put... rocks in the guards boots at night.”

“They walked like hobbled goats, remember?”

“Why... did they take so long to notice.”

“Remember when...”

Mordane closed his eyes. “Tired.” The world was murkier than ever.

Uthgerd's voice grew farther away. “... don't you fall asleep in this. I swear, you have to...”

Sleep took him gently, easier and warmer.


	2. Lighting The Way

At this point in my game play, I was having performance and mod conflicts pretty regularly. I started tying up Mordane's “theme” and main goals. Mod changes directly mentioned during the story are listed below.

  * Not being the dragon born but able to finish the civil war quests. Why can only the dragon born make people move their asses?
  * Not requiring a house to become thane, because who the hell owns that many houses?
  * A bunch of very gay dialogue options plugged in for my own fancy.



**00000**

The whack to Mordane's skull shook up more than his brain. It made him think of his priorities. Shallow doubts of before became deeper and pronounced. The wandering Breton's life was saved by the most unusual of priests. Dipping in and out of consciousness that fated night, Mordane first met his life debt.

The blizzard was raging when Uthgerd first stumbled in the lit establishment. The powerful female warrior had a barely alive Mordane in her arms, half of his exceedingly heavy Dwarven armour stripped off. The dogs trotted in with a wag of their husky tails, sniffing the air.

“Stupid dog.” A tired looking labourer snipped between nibbles of braided bread. How quaint.

The Windpeak Inn was a standard Nord hovel of aged timber, warm mead, and passable conversation. The wolf skin and straw beds always made Mordane so itchy. “Beds itchy.” He mumbled incoherently, unable to focus on anything. His head lolled to one side from cold exhaustion.

The unusual entrance was ignored by the sparse people within. They were all clustered around a hassled priest of Mara, The slim figure assuring the masses. The Dunmer was accosted by complaints, trifling and repetitive.

_“I haven't slept properly in days!”_

_“It's a curse! It has to be! I've got to get out of this town.”_

_“It's the same dream over and over again. You think that's normal? It's evil I tell you!”_

Uthgerd the Unbroken was very unbroken in her graces, earning the moniker an unknown time ago. This was far before Mordane's employ in any case. “Move milk drinkers!” The might Nord nearly bowled over two villagers in her urgency. Ripples of grumbling broke as the people parted and returned to warm seats.

“You! Mara Priest!” Uthgerd ordered, as sharp as her dwarven greatsword. “Heal my employer before he passes to Sovngarde.”

An hour later, Mordane world was no longer numb and swirling. He couldn't sit up yet, nor did he want to. A cursed bard was belting out 'Ragnar the Red' for the thirtieth time one room over. The wounded Breton groaned in culture induced agony. He would honestly prefer the howling blizzard to such known words.

In the dim of candle light, Mordane first properly saw his healer. The Dunmer was called Erandur, his voice modesty with sanded edges. The talkative dark elf's voice was more familiar than his face by now, a common tactic of healers. If a guy could reply back, he obviously wasn't dead yet.

Erandur possessed smooth tilts of Elven jaw line from within a hooded priest robe. His skin was an ashen blue like most Dunmer. His eyes were dark rubies as they squinted at Mordane's clotted wounds. Half undressed, Mordane shivered from examination instead of cold.

Divines curse a bad straw bed, itchier than ever.

“You survived. Bless Mara.”

“I don't feel like I did.” Mordane groaned, rubbing his temples. His head pounded with pain. Erandur held the candle closer still in the dim of the room. Fearing wax in a wound, Mordane did the obvious thing. Gently pushing the light source away, he gestured to the door.

“Close it? You know how some Nords are about magic.”

The priest nodded, doing as asked. “This land is vast and beautiful, but hardly educated.”

Mordane let out a small laugh. “That's putting it lightly.” With a push of will, a whisper of key words, a small but brilliant magelight was born.

“A mage from Winterhold?” Erandur prompted, curious as he resumed his work at the bedside.

Mordane looked away, clearing his throat. He had found a dusty tome of Magelight tucked away in an illiterate bandit camp. Like most Bretons and elves, Mordane had a natural talent for magic. “No. Divines no. It's just a little book I found.”

“Someone that can read, and comprehend magic syntax. You have many blessings, thane.” The priest purred in approval, cupping and directing the brilliant orb of lights as a tool. It was common for proper healers and scholars to use magelight for precision.

“I'm not thane yet.” Mordane retorted lightly. He felt bizarre and light in this moment. This priest was quite easy to chat with.

“Your reputation exceeds you, Mordane the dragon slayer. Thane of thanes. Many Nords believe you are dragonborn, just like Tiberius Septim was.”

The Breton blushed and hid behind his own ginger hair. “I'm... I'm just a Breton trying to get by. Sure, yeah, I killed a dragon or two. Any person with enough armour and training could do that. Why do I have to be dragonborn to do the right thing?”

The priest hummed, though hardly in disapproval. He then peeled off another blood clotted rag, a standard Uthgerd bandage of torn fabric. Mordane gritted his teeth in mostly silent pain, the magelight flickering a moment. After this, soft dabs of a wet rag began clearing old blood and scab away. With a specific posture of hands, Erandur resumed magically weaving shut wounds.

“You undersell your accomplishments sera.”

Upon hearing the Dunmer politeness of a spare 'Sera', Mordane chose silence. He felt like an idiot in front of a humble priest of Mara. It wasn't like the debauched servants of Dibella, who flung off their clothes for the sake of religion. Not that Mordane would know. Nope.

This was a mer of Mara, a humble servant of marriages, blessings, and family. He was more robe than anything, hardly a cause of flustered quiet. In intimate silence Mordane's bruised and bloody torso was cleaned and repaired. How expensive this service would be was unknown. Thank Akatosh he could afford such things now.

The time came, Mordane's naked chest now intact and healed. Ruby Dunmer eyes looked over briefly in prompt of permission. “May I examine further for small cuts? That's all it takes for many to perish.”

Mordane swallowed nervously. “S-sure.”

Thirty minutes later, Mordane emerged from his inn room. Blushing like a snowberry, he appealed to a sleepy inn keeper. He was cut off in his stumbling nonsense.

“It's mighty cold out. Best wait until morning, unless you enjoy freezing to death. Your lady friend paid for the night.” The stern male warned, slowly washing a tankard with a brown rag.

Blushing hotly, Mordane bit a lip. Of course there was only one room with one bed left. Of course it was Erandur's room. Of course the saintly mer had volunteered the bed for a patient. _Of course._

One awkwardly warm sleep later, an uncomfortable Mordane was dragging his tired bones out of bed. The good healer had settled for his own primitive bed roll on the floor. This didn't change that Mordane wanted to flee Dawnstar. He wanted to run like this town was a fire, before something else started smouldering.

“I look forward to a good hunt. It will take my mind off that strange dream from last night.” Uthgerd spoke easily when Mordane left his room. Her own gleaming but battered armour was also donned, all arrows and weapons accounted for.

“As do I.” The Breton agreed. He almost had a foot out into bright morning when someone spoke behind him. It could be no one else but Erandur, out of robe in commoner's tunic and pants. His amulet of Mara still hung around his neck. Ash gray hair tousled from sleep, the priest flagged the adventurers down.

“Sera, if you could. I have a need of your heroics.”

Uthgerd chuckled, turning around first. “Heroes, we are those for a price.”

The priest was to the point, addressing the obvious insomnia that gripped the town. “The entire town is being plagued by horrible nightmares. They're in serious danger, but I'm afraid there's little I can do about it.”

“What could you do, anyway? Dreams aren't real.” Mordane snorted in amusement at the predicament. Dreams killing people, really. The things people would invent to sell elixirs. Uthergerd also rolled her eyes at this mission. At least it could be easy, potentially.

The priest was persistent as he explained further. “These dreams are manifestations created by the Deadric Lord Vaermina. She has an awful hunger for our memories. In return, she leaves behind nightmares not unlike a cough marks a serious illness. I must end her terrible influence over these people before the damage becomes permanent.”

Truthfully Mordane wasn't listening. His eyes traced that fine elven bone structure, leading to soft stubble of a beard. One mission. One little thing, maybe kiss Jarl ass on the way past the long house. Become Thane of this frozen hole, and get out before Mordane grew too _heated_.

Without much thought, the usually attentive Breton tore his gaze from their new client's body. “Yes. Sure. Whatever, where are we going?”

Uthgerd cocked a brow, shooting Mordane a surprised side glance.

About to blabber on about the Nightcaller temple above the town, Erandur paused his monologue. He perked up, actually offering a smile. Oh divines, Mordane regretted this already. “Really? I... I'll get my things. We must go right away.”

Later, the group was sacking Nightcaller Temple. This ruin was another abandoned imperial for of centuries ago, dressed up to another Daedra's designer cult. How many times had Mordane been through this process? He couldn't remember anymore.

The only remarkable place he was thane of was Markarth. At least dungeons there had wonderful historic interest. Mordane had recently taken to collecting intact dwemer parts, using his basal alteration magic to play with them.

Ahead in a dusty hall, Erandur was explaining how all this mess happened. Mordane jogged in clanking dwarven armour to catch up. “You see, the temple was in operated for decades. They harvested dreams to offer to Deadric Lord Vaermina. They were given a glimpse of her knowledge, her strange sleep machinations in return.”

The things people would do for a scrap of education or power. Mordane held his tongue before speaking, not wanting to snip at a hopefully well paying client. “I take it the orcs didn't like this.”

With a swift swing of a chunky dwarven mace, another sleeping orc invader was culled before he could stand. Uthgerd was cutting down addition deadra worshippers and they woke slowly. Divines, this temple stunk. Between the thinning clouds of blue miasma and magically preserved laundry still in the corners, this ruin was gross.

“The sleep deprived orcs were mad for some reason.” Uthgerd quipped sarcastically, finally relaxing her greatsword's grip. This area was clear. The dogs sniffed around, largely useless. Mordane was seriously considering giving them good homes before they were chopped in half.

Erandur grimaced as he led the way. The group reached a wall, a very literal one of smoky indigo magic. “Careful, it's dangerous and impassible.”

Uthgerd spoke the obvious truth. “You know too much about Daedra, elf.”

“It is really suspicious. I think it's time you told us the truth.” Mordane agreed. It would be just his luck that a good looking fellow was a monster in disguise. Most of them had a story or a tale to sob, if they weren't outright murderers.

Caught, the priest of Mara interlocked his own fingers and squeezed anxiously. “I... I suppose I should tell the truth. I was a servant of Vaermina years ago. I fled in the chaos of the invasion... I've been trying to atone for my sins in Mara's light ever since. I apologize for misleading heroes of such calibre.”

The dark elf braced for anger or persecution. He found none. Instead, Mordane and Uthgerd looked on with an almost bored expression.

“Is that it?” Mordane asked simply.

“You're not angry or...” Erandur muttered, puzzled as he peeled back his monk hood.

“Hardly. I'm only concerned with my pay.” Uthgerd was honest in this admission.

Mordane was just as direct, with a non committal shrug. “I'm the outcast son of a Forsworn shaman. I have no grounds I can judge upon.”

Running a hand through grey locks in relief, Erandur let out a shaky breath. “I was so concerned with... It doesn't matter. Praise be, I can end this temple's darkness and put it all behind me.”

More waking orcs and deadra cultists were dealt with easily as the group chewed through Nightcaller temple. They were now in the charred and destroyed library section, three more opponents subdued.

“I didn't think cultists got better.” Mordane admitted as he looked around for a book that wasn't ashes.

“I too am surprised. I thought the Forsworn were born into a life of serving hagravens.” Erandur conversed lightly, searching beside him.

Dropping a burnt leather tome on the floor, the Breton gestured with open palms. He couldn't help but trust the delightful priest, for some unknown reason. Must be the whole Mara business. Gesturing to his own face, Mordane traced the long brown lines of his faded forsworn makings. “Yes, I mean... This was tattooed on when I was five. My tribe was killed by the Aldmeri Dominion afterwards.”

Conversation stilled as Erandur looked over kindly. It made Mordane feel warm, not that he would admit it. All of this was subjects no one had heard in years, if ever, He could not stop puking words in front of this damn priest.

“There's, um, not much tradition to carry on when you're a kid. Don't... don't know much of anything that young.” Looking away shyly, Mordane chose to draw shapes in the ashes of the bookshelf.

“You're so brave, walking in the light in spite of all that darkness.”

Erandur's almost... sweet words touched him. Before anything more could be uttered, Uthgerd broke the mood like a boulder. Mordane lurched to ridged posture in his armour, scrambling to grab his helmet off the floor. The long time employee arrived in a clunk of armour from the upper burnt library.

“I found it, the Dreamstride right?” She waved the heavy purple tome, then paused to squint. “Am I interrupting anything?”

The dark elf flipped his monk's hood back up in a hurry, coughing into a fist. Mordane jammed his helmet on, looking a little rosy. He felt like a child caught stealing an apple. “Nothing. No. Let me see.”

Uthgerd gauged the moment, tense. She then smiled and relaxed. “Good! Let's get this place cleared before I die of temple farts.”

“It's not temple farts, it's miasma of... oh forget it...” Erandur hastily grabbed the book, flipping through it. “This is it, the Dreamstride! With this, we can break the magical barrier and destroy the skull of...”

Mordane zoned out again. He had a hard time around this stranger, to put it lightly. He couldn't stop spilling his guts about his shit life to the redeemed priest. He couldn't stop tracing suggestions of frame in that bulky orange robe. He had to be more careful.

Not being keen on women was a problem, a problem that could get you dead. It was an active persecution in other countries, and Skyrim was no exception. Kissing another man in Windhelm was a prison sentence, in all honesty.

Mordane was so out of the loop he was tapped on the shoulder. They were in the alchemy lab now. Huh. Didn't they beat up more orcs on the way here?

“Sera, are you ready to enter the Dreamstride? It can be dangerous, but I believe you will succeed.” Erandur prompted, a bottle of questionable liquid in his slender hands.

“Can I talk to you a second?” Uthgerd wasn't really asking, towing her employer into a previous hall.

“What's the problem?” Mordane mumbled, not looking away from his new interest under he rounded a corner.

“Listen, I know you're... that. I know when we visit Markarth you're going to... _do things_. But you are drooling all over this priest like he's a sweet roll. Now you're going drink some random dungeon goo to impress him or... What is the matter with you?”

Uthgerd's words stung, but somewhat missed their delivery. Mordane flipped up the visor of his heavy helmet, expression earnest. “So it would impress him?”

There was a groan from within his companion's own visor. “That's not the point. He's a priest. A priest of Mara. He has places to be, probably.”

Mordane took off the helmet proper, fixing his hair vainly. “I'm gonna do it. He'll have to be impressed by my bravery.”

Uthgerd followed in exasperation. “It's not brave if it's stupid.”

Mordane did it. He drank the weird expired potion, he did the dreamstride... for much longer than necessary. Sure, walking in the memories of Erandur had it's educational processes. Mordane actually felt what the priest of Mara, once Brother Casimar, was feeling. This applied to physical touch in this strange state.

When the Breton did emerge in reality again, the barrier that impeded them was down. Mordane felt tired and unhygienic. Without looking, he knew his furious masturbation as dreamstride Erandur had side effects. The priest said it himself, only the drinker of the potion could experience the dream's feeling. There was no harm in using what Erandur had while he was wearing it.

Dreamstride, despite how fatal it was, could be pretty amazing for masturbating as any historical figure. Rubbing one out as an emperor from years past was probably not the intended use. Mordane sometimes wondered if it was normal to be this horny. Probably. He was usually pent up for weeks before his Markarth trips.

“You did it!” Erandur cheered, running over. A concerned Uthgerd was following the priest. She was not blind to Mordane's exhausted condition as he sagged against the wall.

“It was remarkable... As if I were really there.” Mordane replied sleepily. He sat on the floor, ready for a nap.

Erandur's enthusiasm was infectious, a treat to see. “How I envy you. I can only imagine the excitement of seeing history through the eyes of another! Sadly, I am resigned to just reading of its wonders through my research of the Skull.”

“He looks exhausted.” Uthgerd approached cautiously.

“It is unconfirmed what the effects are after a dreamstride, he is actually the first to return...” Erandur pondered this, as Uthgerd offered to haul Mordane off the floor.

The employer halted her with a gesture of a gauntlet. He could feel how hard he came twice in his undergarment, still wet and warm. There was no way in Secunda he was going walk around wearing it. “I am compromised, I need privacy.”

The priest didn't take the hint, but Uthgerd did for once. She leaned in, flipping up her visor to whisper. “Did you... soil yourself in that dream state? You were gone quite some time.”

Nords were so intuitively blind sometimes that it verged on entertainment. Mordane chuckled, glad Uthgerd was exactly who she was. “... Yes. I need to take off something.”

At this, the warrior burst into raucous laughter and stood proper. “That's what your get for trying to impress people. I'll get you something from the bags by the exit.”

Erandur was hasty to get moving, not realizing what was going on. “Come, we must get to the Skull and destroy it.”

“Our hero in charge shat his legendary pants from that goo you fed him.” Uthgerd burst into laughter as she left for fresh undergarments. Embarrassments aside, their small quest was soon underway. More orcs had their skulls caved in. It was all very routine. Mordane suspected this mindset was gravely unhealthy.

Finally the deed was done. The ugly evil skull stick that had annoyed Dawnstar for some time was gone. Even Lord Vaermina's own whispers couldn't appeal to a hardy Breton, a minute before the stick was banished.

The deadra princes may well be powerful, but they were fools to Mordane. As a groomed candidate from an early age for magic, he had always heard the daedric whispers of temptation. Some might see that as a sign of evil, but Mordane liked to think otherwise.

He saw every daedric whisper as an intelligence test. How stupid was he to think taking the offer of daedra was worth it? He was smart enough to so no to most. Molag Bal was the only one that outwitted a younger Mordane's ideals.

Oh, the mistakes he had made before. He was no hero.

Now was the important part. Getting paid. Normally Mordane was wiser to the process. He would get half at the start of a job, and the remainder at the end. He was sometimes performing heroic deeds for free, but only because reality was harsh. It was very unlikely your average villager had more than fifty septims to their name. Taking that pittance away was just... sad.

“Pay up priest.” Uthgerd voiced things faster, and sharply. She didn't hold herself back as severely as Mordane. She didn't need to, a socially accepted Nord of pride and honour. Mordane also had payment on the mind. It was a shame his ulterior motives kept shining through.

Erandur picked up on this from the start, very perceptive. The priest offered a look that melted common sense. “Being a humble servant of Mara, I have little in the way of gold or coin, but perhaps I can offer you something better... companionship.”

Mutual interest was a very pleasant surprise, indeed. Those velvet tones were paired with elven bedroom eyes. It took years of living near elves to recognize such affections, due to their tilted expressions. Mordane was very familiar, a former regular of certain Dibella businesses.

Secretly excited, he took the hand offered and shook it. He brilliantly forgot to talk words. At hearing no confirmation, the priest let go and retreated. Uncertainty, even fear, was obvious on his face. It was death to offer such things to the wrong person. He nervously clenched his hands, voice taut.

"I'd constructed a meagre shrine to Mara in the antechamber where we entered. My intention was to spend the rest of my years here, burying the past and praying for forgiveness. But instead... I, um, wish to offer my services to you. If you ever wish to journey with me, I'll be here."

Mordane walked forward, then jogged down the stairs of the eroded altar to catch a retreating priest. Clasping a gauntlet on those graceful shoulders, He babbled as he flipped up his visor, his subtleties stumbling. “I'm... You can... I uh, am in need of your services.”

“Truly?” Eradur murmurred, hiding nothing with faint purple blush.

Mordane smiled, happy. Here was someone that was as touch starved as him, probably more so. How long had this man coiled and stifled his own desire for affection. “Yes.”

Uthgerd was aware of the exchange, peeved. “We stick our necks out for this cultist, and he doesn't have a single septim to spare.”

Pride. Anger. Muted rage of sexual suppression flared in Mordane's mind. He turned to his loyal employee, colder than usual. He usually let her get away with verbal murder but this attitude pissed him off. He was tired of hiding what he was, perpetually alone on a emotional level. This was a possibility of being himself on the low.

“That is enough. He is a priest of Mara. Priests are not septim filled bags with legs. They are vessels of Aedra wisdom. If we can be conduits of her grace in kind, It would be cruelty to deny Eradur.” A truly religious man himself, Mordane was very supportive of this excuse. The possibility of kissing Erandur senseless under the two moons was also powerful imagery.

How long had it been since so sweet a thing as kisses?

Uthgerd's face darkened, brows furrowed. She looked ready to argue, then closed her mouth. “Very well, _boss_. I'm going to find where those dogs ran off.” With that mocking retort, she walked past the duo to likely fume outside.

After a minute of silence, Erandur spoke up. “You... defended me. You are truly brave.”

“I'm just... I'm...” Mordane muttered sheepishly.

“Do you truly believe the guiding light of Mara is meant for your travels?” Erandur grabbed a gauntlet, so close. Mordane was actually quite short among the races of men, like many Breton. Only the wood elves were shorter. This resulted in Erandur being slightly taller as he stepped close. “Do you believe the light of Mara can break even the most... stringent social traditions?”

“I do.” The addled warrior whispered. The wording was as blunt as elves went, hinting of what they were. Tragically, it was all that they were not allowed to be.

“Take off that silly helmet then.”

Mordane was quick to obey, unbuckled the two buckles in his armoured dwarven collar. Erandur peeled off the remaining cotton coif, ruffling helmet flattened ginger hair. Breathless, Mordane was unsure if he would get what he desired. This very moment was more fragile than dry parchment.

The priest was so close, eyes locked in some brand of destiny. Men's emerald to mer's ruby, there was something here. There was potential, like an ocean tide. “May I?” Erandur asked one last time.

“Please.” Mordane was surprised by the ache in his own voice. Finally, they touched noses and fit into place. It was all... perfect. This brief clean kiss was soft and warm. It made Mordane cling to his new _companion_ with fervour. He was hardly virginal, but this was... some kind of magic.

The pair emerged from the ransacked Nightcaller temple, still holding hands in starts. Erandur looked deftly pleased, a faint blush giving his dunmer neutrality. “About fucking time.” Uthgerd snipped, both idiot dogs now on leashes in her steel grip. “We have to inform the Jarl of our deeds before nightfall, then decide what bounty we want.”

“Yes, yes, lead the way.” Mordane hummed, unable to bluff his way out of a burlap sack. He had been given a kiss, praise... praise all the divines! He would dance if his armour didn't weigh so much.

It was only one kiss today, but hopes bloomed there would be many more in the future.

**00000**

_Author's Note:_

The sheer 'thanks' and 'appreciation' Erandur expresses in game on a regular basis is not inherently gay on it's own. It's part of why he's such a nice follower for good guys. Why I perceive it as gay is because it's so endearing and frequent. Dark elves can be sombre and moody NPCs to deal with on the best of days.

This level of 'thanks' seemed excessive. It's almost behaviour I link to those in love or bromance. This would be a nice tie in if he was marriageable in base game, but hes not. I can therefore easily project he's gay for Mordane but unwilling to go public, which would expose them to danger.

I would link it but, basically Skyrim's only official gay couple got murdered brutally. Kinda sets a grim precedent. That's medieval-ish times for you.


End file.
